F*ck Marriage

by Fisher, Tarryn

  I hear the sound of sniffling and I press the phone tighter to my face, my heart wrenching in my chest.

  “Jules…” I say softly.

  “Yeah.”

  She’s crying. Oh God, she’s heartbroken and it’s my fault. I smell Billie before I see her; the mellow scent of woman muddled with her perfume that always makes me think of the jasmine bush outside my parents’ kitchen window. It’s intoxicating. My head swims. She touches my shoulder, her warmth seeping past my shirt and warming my skin. It’s comforting and disconcerting at the same time. The woman I love consoling me after I got her best friend pregnant.

  “It’s going to be all right. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she says.

  We hang up after that and neither Billie nor I say anything about the call. She dutifully does the dishes while I clean up the living room of the tossed blankets and candy wrappers. After that we go to bed. Tomorrow is Christmas, though neither of us feels like celebrating.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I wake up to pounding on my front door. It’s cold. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and stumble to the front door, almost tripping over Billie’s abandoned shoes. I kick them aside and when I open the door, my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Chartuss, is standing there in her robe, a strange hat on her head. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not a hat, but fat foam rollers. I’ve never seen her anything but styled and ready in one of her various fur coats.

  “Mrs. Chartuss,” I say, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Merry Christmas.”

  She frowns at me like I’m the one knocking on her door at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning.

  “I’m Jewish,” she says curtly.

  “Happy Holidays then,” I correct. “What can I do for you?” Behind me I hear the bedroom door open and Billie’s footfalls.

  “Power’s out,” she says. “Whole building. I loaned you a flashlight two years ago…”

  “Yes, you did,” I say. “Let me grab it for you.” I leave her at the door looking disgruntled while I get the flashlight from the hall closet. No wonder it was so cold. Just for good measure, I flick the light switch in the hall. The light stays stubbornly off. Great. When I hand it to her, she mumbles a comment about it having fresh batteries and shuffles back to her own front door.

  “Well,” I say, closing the door behind her and turning to Billie. “Christmas is canceled.”

  “It’s always been canceled.” Billie yawns.

  “No. Nope. Get dressed. We can’t stay here. We’ll freeze.”

  “I’m sure they’ll get it on soon,” she says. “Don’t panic.”

  “It’s Christmas and it’s snowing. There’s no way. The owner of this building can barely be reached for emergencies.”

  “Okay. So where are we going?” She lifts her hands to rub at her arms, which are scattered with goose bumps like she’s just figuring out it’s cold.

  “Somewhere warm,” I tell her.

  “Mmm, Florida,” she says dreamily.

  Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue; instead, she disappears into the bedroom to get dressed. An hour later, we’re on the road. Billie turns her seat warmer to maximum heat and burrows into the leather like an animal in its nest.

  The drive Upstate takes less time than I planned, the highways mercifully empty. We don’t talk much. We listen to Christmas music with an occasional anti-holiday comment from Billie.

  “Why are you such a Scrooge anyway?” I say. “From what I recall, you used to love the holidays.”

  “You mean when I had a husband and a home and I could cook those stupid meals, and decorate that stupid tree, and pretend I was living in a 1950s sitcom?”

  I flinch.

  “Point taken,” I say. “But today ... today we celebrate. Consider it your first year back from your Christmas sabbatical.”

  “But I don’t want to,” she grumbles.

  “Too bad.” I reach over and lower the heat. It’s starting to feel like Florida in here.

  “Where are we going anyway?” She sips on the paper cup of coffee she made me stop for before we got on the freeway.

  “You’ll see.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me?” she gripes.

  “Because I don’t want to hear your complaints.”

  She grunts like she’s too tired to argue, and I don’t try to stifle my smile. Even when she’s playing the part of the Grinch she’s cute. I immediately toss that thought from my head. I’ve just found out I am going to be a father. I don’t need to be mentally listing all of Billie’s charms.

  I park my car against the curb exactly an hour later and glance up at the expansive snow-covered lawn. To the rear of the property sits an impressive Victorian with a wraparound porch. A curl of smoke lifts into the sky from the fireplace, and it seems that all the windows (and there are a lot of windows) are lit by flickering yellow light that I know from experience are tiny faux candles my mother uses to decorate. I hop out of the car and walk around Billie’s side to open her door.

  “You didn’t,” she says, eyes large. She studies the house, a look of trepidation on her face.

  “I didn’t what?”

  “Bring me to your home for Christmas…” she hisses. “Oh my God, oh my God—who is that?”

  I look over my shoulder to see my mother standing in the doorway, arms crossed as she waits for us.

  Billie slides down in her seat so that her head is resting where her lower back should go. “Is that your mother?” she whispers.

  “Yes,” I say, glancing at the door again. “Looks like she’s waiting for us…”

  “I didn’t even put makeup on,” she says miserably. “I look like a joke.”

  “Well, yes, you do,” I say, eyeing the way she’s slouched down in her seat. “You look like my niece when she’s throwing a tantrum.”

  “Ugh!” She scrunches up her nose as I offer my hand to help her out of the car.

  I notice as we walk up the path toward the front door that she stops complaining and a look of interest fills her face. There are noises coming from the house: squeals of joy from my nieces and nephews, my eldest sister’s bellowing laugh. They are happy sounds, the kind that fill me with a grateful warmness. We are greeted with the type of enthusiasm saved for holidays. My mother, an elegant woman of fifty-nine, greets Billie with a hug and then holds her at arm’s length, declaring that she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever brought home. My mother, who is beautiful herself with thick auburn hair she wears in a twist and bright blue eyes, looks like she could be Billie’s mother. Billie blushes furiously at the compliment before it’s my turn to be greeted. I note Mom’s cherry-print apron with fondness as she embraces me, Billie waiting just past her shoulder in the foyer. She’s worn the same apron since I was a child; my sisters ride her for it constantly, but my mother doesn’t care. It’s her apron and she loves it. The real question is how she’s managed to keep it in such good condition for so long. The thing looks brand new.

  “I’m about to put breakfast on the table,” she says, leading us into the living room, which looks like a warzone of paper, and toys, and tiny screaming humans that resemble my sisters.

  In a flash, I’m a human jungle gym as eleven of my nieces and nephews run at me screaming excitedly. The oldest is ten and the youngest has just spat up on my shirt. I kiss both their heads as everyone looks curiously at Billie.

  I introduce her around the room to the various spouses, and aunts and uncles, and by the time I’m done she looks thoroughly overwhelmed.

  “Come on.” My mother grabs her by the arm. “I need help in the kitchen ... and I have mimosas…” I hear her whisper.

  I watch as Billie gratefully allows herself to be led in the direction of the kitchen. When she’s gone the questions start.

  “Is that your girlfriend?” my niece asks. “She’s really pretty.”

  “Just a friend.” I tug on her ponytail as my sisters round on me.

  “But who—?”

  “
Where did you—?”

  “What does she—?”

  “Whoa, whoa!” I hold up my hands to silence them. “Merry Christmas to you too. And stop being so damn nosy.”

  “You haven’t brought a girl home since 2014,” my sister Heidi says. “What was her name—?” She snaps her fingers looking around the room for help.

  “Gladys!” my grandmother calls out. She jabs her bent finger into the air in triumph.

  “Gladys was your sister’s name, Nana,” my sister Beatrice says, patting her knee.

  “Oh.”

  “Glenda!” my father calls from the carpet where he’s assembling a toy for one of my nephews.

  “Noooo, it was Gloria,” someone else says.

  “It was Gillian,” I say mildly. “But you were all too drunk to remember that—especially you, Nana,” I say, kissing her on the forehead.

  She reaches up to pat my cheek. “Your mother spikes the eggnog,” she complains. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  I look past her to the kitchen doors wondering what my mother is up to in there. I hear a burst of laughter that I identify as Billie’s and immediately relax. They emerge five minutes later carrying dishes toward the table.

  At breakfast, we pass the food around while discussing my mother's apron at great length.

  “It shouldn’t still look brand new,” Heidi says. “It’s witchcraft.”

  “She’s had that thing since we were kids…” Beatrice explains to Billie. “We talk about this every time we’re together.”

  “Because she won’t tell us how it is that she wears the damn thing every day and it looks new.” Nora spoons eggs onto her plate. She’s in her last trimester of pregnancy and her belly is so large she can’t scoot close to the table.

  My mother grins like the Cheshire cat and winks at Billie, who in return beams back at her. How often had I imagined bringing Billie home to meet my family? I’d probably be ashamed to admit. And here she is, just like I imagined, fitting right in with the Gable crowd.

  “So Billie, you’re the brain behind Rhubarb,” Nora says. “You know I read that thing before my brother ever bought it from you. I was quite surprised when he told us.”

  “And how do you think he’s done with it?” Billie leans forward in her seat. “Being a longtime reader…”

  Nora smiles at me. “Well, I may be partial, but my brother has the Midas touch. And if anything, his smartest move was bringing you back on.”

  Billie blushes furiously. If she were sitting next to me I’d reach out to squeeze her knee. My mother, ever being the proactive hostess, seated her between Beatrice and herself. I know the seating arrangement is for the purpose of grilling Billie.

  I’m seated between my uncle and father. We make small talk about work while I sneak glances at Billie. Her hair is wild; without the use of her straightener the curls have made themselves known. I want to tell her that I prefer her hair this way—but I know she’ll just dismiss my comment. My father, who has been a detective in New York’s precinct for twenty years, catches on and raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug. Later, we switch roles; the men are in the kitchen cleaning while the women relax in the living room. My father packs the dishwasher while I rinse.

  “You in love with her?” He doesn’t look at me when he asks this.

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. “Yeah,” I say, handing him a frying pan.

  “She’s your boy Woods’ girl, ain’t she?”

  “Ex,” I say.

  “Same thing. You don’t touch what’s belonged to another man.”

  I set down the bowl I’m holding and face my father. Our relationship can best be described as…a lake. Sometimes everything is clear and warm: you can see right down to the floor beneath the water—our issues lay along the bottom like an old shipwreck—undisturbed; other times, it’s like something lifts the silt and makes the water murky. The temperature drops and the shipwreck rises to the surface to stare us in the face. I can already tell that today will be one of those days. Merry Christmas to me, I think wryly.

  “Women are not property. They were in a relationship. That relationship ended.”

  “She was married to your best friend, son. Bros before h—”

  I hold up a hand to stop him before he finishes.

  Across the kitchen, Julian, Beatrice’s husband, pauses in his conversation with my uncle. He catches my eye and shakes his head slightly. He’s telling me to let it go. To bite my tongue and be a good son. Julian, who has witnessed firsthand the explosive arguments I’ve had with my father, is the family peacemaker, but something about my father using the word ho in reference to Billie pushes me over the edge.

  “Why’d they get a divorce, irreconcilable differences? She couldn’t take it when he left his socks next to the hamper?” He laughs as he closes the dishwasher.

  Ever since I was a child he mocked irreconcilable differences as a reason for divorce. He’s old school: divorce isn’t an option. Women should forfeit careers to be housewives, and men who cry are “fucking pussies.”

  “He was having an affair with one of my employees.”

  We all turn at the same time to see Billie standing in the doorway, a casserole dish in her hand. “You forgot this one on the table,” she says, ignoring all the stares and looking directly at me.

  A smile presses at the corners of my mouth like it always does when I look at her. “Thanks,” I say, taking it from her.

  Instead of turning around and leaving, she walks deeper into the kitchen. “So, do you guys need any help or would you like to clean and practice misogyny in private?” She looks directly at my dad when she says this, her eyes wide and innocent.

  “Ahh, don’t take anything I say to heart, Billie. I’m just kidding around.”

  “Oh, I didn’t take it to heart. I don’t even have a heart, Woods got that in the divorce.”

  There’s a moment of silence before my father’s face cracks into a smile, and then he laughs his famous belly laugh, holding onto the counter for balance. I glance around the room and see that everyone’s smiles are painfully relieved. Billie just did what most of us are incapable of doing: working her way into my father’s heart. I can already tell he’s besotted.

  “Let’s go, Billie,” he says, swinging his arm around her shoulders. “I can tell you some shit about our Satcher here, really good shit—embarrassing.”

  She winks at me as she allows herself to be led out of the kitchen.

  “Who would have thought…?” Julian dries his hands on one of my mother’s dish towels. “All we had to do was insult him back and he’d accept us.”

  “Bro, no—” Nora’s husband, Chris, emerges from the fridge holding a beer. “I tried that once and he threatened to kill me.”

  We all laugh and then things get quiet. I can hear Billie’s voice from the living room and then my father’s booming reply. They’re quipping back and forth.

  “You know she’s not there yet…” Julian is a shrink. He says shrinky things and I want to punch him in the face.

  “I’m not in this for her to be there,” I say. “Not everyone does things with expectations.”

  “No, man, no. I know you’re not like that. Beatrice said—”

  I cut him off. “I don’t care what Beatrice said. She’s a meddlesome first child. Hands off Billie. She’s not up for discussion.”

  “Damn,” I hear Chris say as I leave the kitchen. “He’s really in love with this one.”

  I grit my teeth. Isn’t that the truth?

  We leave late, after my mother has piled our arms with Tupperware containers of food. The containers are still warm to the touch as I stack them on the backseat.

  “They’re going to fall over,” Billie says, coming up behind me.

  I stand back to let her arrange them. When she straightens up, she gives me a look that says she’s amused with me.

  “Can arrange websites, business modules, and—” I smack her on the butt before she can finish and she yelps playfu
lly. Once we’re on the highway she swivels in her seat to face me and says, “Okay, let’s discuss…”

  I glance at her and see that she’s grinning.

  “What would you like to discuss?”

  “So, I love them,” she says, and suddenly my heart feels huge and warm like someone poured gasoline on it and lit a match. “What? Why do you have that look on your face?” She reaches over and sticks a finger in my dimple.

  Instead of pulling her finger away, she keeps it there in the recess of my cheek.

  “Heartburn…” I hit my chest with my fist like it’s especially painful.

  She reaches into her purse as she speaks the names of my family members, each one sounding like a different key on a piano. As she speaks, she pulls out a bottle of Tums and shakes two of the pastel circles into her palm. I expect her to hand them to me, but she reaches over and puts them between my lips instead. I close my eyes when her fingers touch my mouth, fighting the urge to put them between my lips so I can taste her. She’s babbling on, giving me a rundown of each person in my family.

  She ends her little speech with: “And no one agrees with anyone else, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone says their piece and there is so much love. So much.”

  I recall her mother in the hospital sitting at her bedside, quiet and stiff. If that’s what she grew up with, my family would definitely be a culture shock: loud, abrasive ... and like she said—full of love.

  When I pull into the parking garage underneath my building, Billie is slumped in the passenger seat, asleep, her full lips pursed like she’s asking for a kiss. I watch her for a minute, her breathing steady, her eyelids still. I’ve never been in love, not until her, and I never want to be again—it hurts. Love hurts in the way a toothache hurts: you can’t ignore it, and it’s always there throbbing and aching, reminding you ... of what? I think desperately. What is it reminding you of?

  That you’re human. That you have weakness. That your weakness is another person.

  Goddammit. I run my hands over my eyes, my cheeks, my chin. This is bad. This is very bad. My ex-girlfriend is having my baby, and I’m in love with a woman who isn’t available. Life has many flaws, but the most prominent of them is the unpredictability. Plot twist! I think as I reach over to wake Billie up. I touch her hand, running my fingers over the puckered skin of her knuckles and saying her name. She breathes deeply and opens her eyes, focusing on me.